Chapter 1 – The Broken Voice
Monaco(Europe), that night.
Rain hammered the city, turning the pavements into mirrors that reflected the lit-up façades. The crowd scurried toward the casino, swallowed by the promise of the evening's glamour.
Inside, everything breathed luxury: glittering necklaces, immaculate tuxedos, clinking champagne glasses. Gradually, the murmur died down. The spotlights swung to focus on the stage.
The moment everyone had been waiting for had arrived: the entrance of Émilie Wong.
A Hong Kong singer known across the world, her voice had already conquered New York, Paris, and Shanghai.
Tonight, at Monaco's most prestigious gala, Émilie wasn't just a guest. She was the awaited revelation. Whispers faded away, consumed by anticipation.
Backstage, Émilie took a deep breath. Then, as she stepped onto the stage, the entire hall fell silent.
Her long satin gown captured the glow of a golden spotlight. She seemed unreal.
Émilie raised the microphone. The first note rose, pure, and a shiver ran through the room.
Her voice was both soft and powerful. Every word seemed to come from the heart. It was as if she were singing for each person individually, sharing a secret. The piano accompanied her gently, then the orchestra joined in, making the whole room vibrate.
Time stopped. All eyes were fixed on her; some spectators even had tears in their eyes. Émilie shone brighter than all the diamonds around her.
Behind the curtain, thirteen-year-old Lucie watched with awestruck eyes. Her tanned skin, her slightly askew black military beret, and her posture—already too straight for her age—set her apart from ordinary children.
— She's incredible… she whispered, unable to look away.
Beside her, a firm voice resonated.
— Lucie, remember you're here for security. Stay focused.
It was Michaël, her father. Tall and sturdy, in his forties, his features sharp as if carved from stone, a thin scar cutting across his dark chin. His mere presence commanded respect. Dressed in black, he looked more like a sentinel than a father, but his eyes burned with a fierce protectiveness for his daughter. Along with Lucie, he was part of the Wong family's personal security detail, always ready to protect Émilie from the shadows of the spotlight.
Lucie, though young, had inherited her father's rigor and discipline. Trained from childhood by Michaël himself in military arts and close-protection techniques, she had earned her place through her cool head and efficiency. Her age often surprised people, but on the job, no one dared question her competence.
Lucie nodded, a little ashamed. She glanced at the violin case lying nearby and bit her lip. A memory washed over her. A memory of a bright afternoon in a meadow.
Émilie was laughing, sitting in the tall grass. She gently held Lucie's hands, showing her how to place her fingers on the strings. Lucie, a bit clumsy, made the bow screech. She was far more at ease with a blade than a violin, and her face twisted in discomfort.
— I'm hopeless… mumbled Lucie, looking away.
— Not at all, Émilie replied, laughing. See? You're already improving.
— If you say so… Lucie sighed.
— Listen, the important thing isn't to play perfectly. It's to play with your heart.
But Émilie's laugh dissolved the awkwardness in an instant. Lucie ended up laughing too, despite herself. Their hands remained clasped a little too long, as if time had stopped. Around them, all that could be heard was the chirping of crickets and the gentle wind dancing through the wildflowers.
— You know, Émilie said, lowering her voice, I like it when you forget to be serious.
Lucie blushed slightly, lowered her eyes, then stammered with a hesitant smile:
— It's… it's your fault… you make me forget.
They both burst into laughter, a light laugh that seemed to make the air around them vibrate.
Lucie, who had sworn to protect Émilie, was slowly forgetting her role as a bodyguard. She was no longer the vigilant, wary shadow, but simply a young girl, caught up in the carefree joy of another.
Émilie, for her part, seemed to read this lapse with tenderness, accepting it like a shared secret. Her eyes shone with a quiet warmth, as if she knew that, in that moment, rules, dangers, and oaths held no power. Lucie caught herself thinking that perhaps she wasn't the one protecting Émilie… but that Émilie, with her laugh and smile, was protecting the fragile, forgotten part of her.
Gradually, the memory faded. The gala's buzz resumed, and applause marked the end of the first act.
Short of breath, Émilie bowed and took a step toward the wings. But, amidst the crowd, she spotted a familiar face. A woman with delicate features, her hair tied up in a bun: Anastasia D'Aureval, her mentor.
Their eyes met. Anastasia gave her a proud smile, discreet but enough to warm Émilie's heart. Émilie returned a quick smile before disappearing backstage, still carried by the ovation.
In the hallway, Michaël and Lucie were waiting for her.
Michaël approached gently.
— Your father asked me to pass on his encouragement, he said in a steady voice.
Émilie gave a slight smile.
— Thank you, Michaël. You and Lucie, you're like family to me here.
He simply nodded, his expression serious, but his eyes betrayed a discreet kindness.
A knowing smile passed between the two girls. Already on high alert, Michaël took the lead, while Lucie took her place beside Émilie to accompany her to her dressing room.
As they approached, they passed a young staff member leaving the dressing room, an empty tray in her hands. Her pace was brisk, almost too brisk.
— Is everything alright, miss? Émilie asked politely.
— Yes, of course, the woman replied with a hurried smile before walking away with a light step, disappearing around the corner.
Michaël watched her for a few seconds, saying nothing, then started walking again.
— So? Lucie whispered.
— So… I think I survived, Émilie replied, hinting a smile.
— More than that, Lucie corrected softly. You shone.
Émilie lowered her eyes, a discreet laugh at the corner of her lips.
— If you keep saying that, I might start to believe it.
Lucie shrugged with a small wink. The two finally burst out laughing, accomplices, their joy echoing a bit too loudly in the hallway. Michaël immediately turned around, his stern look commanding silence. Lucie swallowed her smile and put on a more serious face, aware it was better to stay discreet.
A little later, in her dressing room.
Calm had replaced the gala's excitement. The echoes from the hall no longer reached here, muffled by the thick walls. On the vanity, a bouquet of flowers awaited, accompanied by a velvet box.
The bouquet was sumptuous, composed of six-colored osmanthus flowers. A rare, almost unreal arrangement. The petals gave off a scent both sweet and heady, filling the room with a soothing, mysterious atmosphere.
Émilie approached, a smile at the corner of her lips.
— Look! Lucie exclaimed. It must be a good luck charm!
Émilie held the bouquet for a moment. She put the necklace around her neck without suspicion, took a deep breath. Time was pressing. She rejoined the bustling hallway, where technicians hurried by and murmurs from the audience already filtered through the doors. The red velvet of the stage was calling her again.
A few seconds later, the spotlights came back on, and Émilie reappeared, settling at the piano. Her fingers glided gracefully across the keys, her clear voice rising through the hall. Every note vibrated with emotion, captivating the audience. But just as she reached for a high note, her voice suddenly broke. A shudder ran through her: an icy prickle at the base of her neck, as if a needle had been driven in.
Her hands froze on the keyboard. Not another note… A glacial silence fell. Émilie brought her hand to her throat. Under her fingers, at her hairline, a tiny, barely visible red mark, a puncture. Her eyes widened. She gasped for air, and a strangled wheeze rose instead of the expected breath.
— No… no… she stammered in a nearly inaudible voice.
Her legs trembled. She staggered, coughed, then a trickle of blood slid between her fingers. She widened her eyes even more, stunned, unable to comprehend what was happening to her.
— Help me… she breathed, her voice broken.
The world around her blurred. The applause had turned to cries of terror, but Émilie could hardly hear anything anymore. Everything became confused: panicked faces, figures standing up, hands reaching for her.
Her shallow breath echoed like a final plea. The harsh spotlight seemed to nail her to the floor, exposing her distress to all, as panic surged through the hall. Michaël leapt onto the stage, like a black panther cleaving through the crowd.
— Lucie, stay behind me! he ordered.
But Lucie was already ahead, trying to help.
In the agitated crowd, Anastasia pushed her way through to reach Émilie.
Anastasia knelt beside Émilie. Her fine hand brushed her neck. She immediately detected the tiny puncture. Her eyes narrowed.
— The Poison of Six Roots… she murmured, horrified.
Michaël looked at her, trembling.
— The… what?
Anastasia raised her head, her voice suddenly grave.
— A mixture based on osmanthus flowers. Extremely rare. A single drop is enough to paralyze the senses.
At these words, Michaël froze. An image flashed in his mind: the young staff member, the one they had passed earlier, leaving the dressing room in a hurry.
His gaze hardened.
— Stay with her! he said firmly.
Without waiting, he ran off the stage.
Through the panicked crowd, he spotted the familiar silhouette. The same brisk walk, the same carriage. The woman was cutting through the chaos, heading toward the service exit. Michaël sped up, his hand already brushing against the holster under his jacket.
— You… he hissed.
She turned around abruptly. Their eyes met for a second, long enough for Michaël to read the cold resolve of a professional in hers.
She immediately took off, darting into a side corridor.
Michaël pursued her, shoving past technicians, avoiding cables and overturned spotlights.
The woman drew a small dagger with a purple hilt, a blade, thin, narrow, and gleaming, forged for speed rather than strength.
Around a corner, she spun and attacked. Michaël parried the first strike with his forearm, the metal lightly slicing his sleeve. He countered with a brutal backhand, but she evaded with feline agility.
The clash of their movements knocked over a poster; a neon light shattered with a crackle.
— Who sent you?! Michaël growled.
No answer.
Another strike, fast, precise. She aimed for his throat, he blocked, pivoted, tried to disarm her. The blade fell, clattered on the floor, but she used the moment to drive a knee into his ribs, slamming him against the wall.
She snatched her dagger from the floor, pulled a miniature smoke grenade from her belt, and threw it at their feet. Thick grey smoke filled the corridor.
Michaël coughed, trying to make out her silhouette. But already, he could hear the rumble of an engine.
He burst outside into the driving rain, just in time to see the woman leap into a black jeep parked a few meters away.
— Stop! he yelled, but the vehicle sped off, spraying the wet pavement.
Through the rear window, he saw the woman pull off her blonde wig. Her long black hair cascaded down her shoulders.
Then, slowly, she tore off the silicone mask that had concealed her face.
She threw the false face out the window; the wind carried it into the Monaco night before the jeep disappeared into the rain and mist.
Michaël caught only a fleeting profile, a blurred shadow turned toward the road, before the vehicle receded with a dull roar.
Michaël stood motionless, panting, fists clenched.
Then, without a word, he turned and sprinted back toward the casino, his heart heavy and jaw clenched.
A few hours later, in a private clinic in Monaco.
The sirens had fallen silent, replaced by the steady hum of machines. Under the harsh light, Émilie seemed more fragile than ever, lying between sterile white sheets.
The doctors spoke in low voices, unable to explain what they were seeing. They confirmed a loss of voice and a progressive deterioration of hearing. No lesion, no infection explained these symptoms. They spoke of a rare disorder, with no identifiable cause or known treatment.
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the regular beep of the heart monitor. Lucie still held Émilie's icy hand, refusing to let go.
Hong Kong.
On a rooftop lashed by rain, a silhouette overlooked the city. The black coat clung to his shoulders; rain hammered against the mask covering half his face. Between his fingers, a cinnabar prayer bead necklace slipped, bead against bead, like a countdown.
His phone vibrated; he answered without taking his eyes off the horizon.
— She's been hit, a woman's voice said on the other end.
A dry smile cracked his mouth, tracing scars like lightning across his skin.
— Good. Let her sing a little longer, if she can. Then… the Codex will be mine.